Chapter Text
The team tore through the forest canopy, the rhythm of their movement sharp and unyielding. Branches bent beneath their weight, snapping back into place as they leapt from one to the next. The air was alive with the rustle of leaves, the crack of twigs, the drumbeat of feet hitting bark in rapid succession.
Up front, Sai and Naruto darted side by side, their voices cutting through the forest as much as their bodies did.
“Bet I hit that branch before you do!” Naruto called out, pointing mid-leap toward a thick oak limb ahead.
Sai didn’t even look, his expression maddeningly calm as he angled his body forward. “As if clumsy momentum counts as speed.” His tone was flat, almost bored, but there was a faint lilt of mockery beneath it.
Naruto’s growl of irritation carried through the trees. He lunged, twisting midair to force himself ahead, only for Sai to spring higher, landing with infuriating precision just a heartbeat before him.
“Tch! You cheated!” Naruto snapped.
Sai’s lips curved the slightest fraction. “Hard to cheat when you simply lack skill.”
“Skill?! I’ll show you skill!” Naruto bellowed, pumping his chakra harder into his legs. The trees seemed to shake with the force of his next leap, leaves spiraling loose in his wake.
Sai didn’t bother matching the brute force. Instead, he angled into a narrower line, slipping through branches Naruto’s bulk nearly snapped clean off. “You’re mistaking recklessness for progress again,” he said smoothly, just as Naruto stumbled for half a beat on a jagged branch before righting himself.
“Shut up!” Naruto barked, face red, though whether from exertion or Sai’s calm needling, no one could say.
Behind them, Kakashi kept pace with easy, measured strides, his single eye glinting with faint amusement at their antics. He said nothing, letting the boys burn out their energy in competitive banter—it was almost more useful than sparring in its own way.
Sakura, though, wasn’t laughing. Every leap sent a dull ache rattling up her legs. Her arms felt weighted, her breath heavier than it should’ve been. She rolled her shoulders mid-flight, trying to shake off the stiffness, but it clung stubbornly to her. Heat pressed beneath her skin, a faint flush creeping higher up her neck.
She told herself it was just the exhaustion of days on the road. That once they reached shelter, once she rested, it would pass. Still, she clenched her jaw and pushed on, refusing to fall behind.
Up ahead, Naruto’s voice rang out again, brash as ever.
“C’mon, Sai! Race you to the clearing! Loser carries Sakura’s pack tonight!”
Sai tilted his head, already pulling slightly ahead again. “Then prepare your back, Naruto.”
Naruto let out a strangled yell, and the canopy seemed to tremble as he launched after him, the two of them vanishing briefly into the green blur of the forest’s upper reaches.
Kakashi sighed softly. “Children, I swear…..”
Sakura tried to smile, but her lips barely curved. She fixed her gaze forward, willing her body to hold steady just a little longer.
By the time the roofs of the village appeared through the thinning treeline, the sun was already sinking, spilling long gold over the fields and gilding the edges of the thatched houses. Smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys, carrying the faint tang of woodfire on the evening air. The streets were quiet, villagers shuttering windows and calling children in as dusk settled.
The team slipped inside like shadows, their pace slowing for the first time all day. The village was small—little more than a cluster of shops and homes around a single square—but it offered what they needed: food, shelter, a place to stop moving.
The inn stood at the corner, its lanterns glowing warmly against the encroaching dark. Humble, worn, nearly full—but they managed to claim the last available room. The space was modest: two queen beds pressed against opposite walls, a narrow dresser, and a small window that overlooked the square. The faint scent of cedar hung in the wooden beams.
Sakura set her pack down first, shoulders sagging with relief. Without waiting for instructions, she claimed one bed, dropping onto the edge of it as though her body had been waiting hours for permission. The boys would share the other—it was unspoken, inevitable. Kakashi, characteristically unbothered, arranged for a cot to be brought up, dragging it near the window where the night breeze could reach.
No sooner had he done so than Naruto and Sai began again. This time it was over the bed—who got which side, who hogged more blankets, whose snoring was the greater offense. Their bickering bounced off the wooden walls, loud enough that a guest down the hall thumped on their own door in protest.
“You’re not sleeping near the wall, you’ll crush me if you roll over!” Naruto snapped.
Sai’s response was calm, needling: “Then I suppose you’ll finally learn spatial awareness.”
“WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!”
Kakashi propped himself up on one elbow, his shadow long in the lanternlight. “Shut up,” he said mildly. The words weren’t loud, but the steel beneath them was unmistakable. Both boys froze, scowled in unison, and flopped onto the bed with exaggerated annoyance. The silence that followed was sulky but blessed.
The room settled into uneasy peace. Kakashi leaned back on his cot, closing his eye with a sigh, the faint curve of amusement ghosting under his mask. He let the quiet breathe, only half-aware of the sounds outside—the muted clop of a horse passing, the creak of the inn settling into night.
When his gaze flicked across the room, it lingered on Sakura. She had collapsed face-first into her pillow, one arm stretched across the mattress as though she’d fallen mid-motion. Her hair spilled loose around her, catching in the fading glow from the window. She hadn’t even changed out of her clothes; the instant her body touched the mattress, sleep had taken her whole. Her breathing was steady, deep, her shoulders rising and falling with exhaustion’s surrender.
For a moment, Kakashi studied her in silence, the faintest crease forming at his brow. Then he closed his eye again, letting the quiet room hold them all.
~
They rose with the pale light of dawn, the village still wrapped in mist that clung low to the roofs and drifted through the empty lanes. The inn’s common room smelled faintly of damp wood and steamed rice. Breakfast was quick and plain—small bowls of rice, a few pickled vegetables, and weak tea swallowed more for fuel than for flavor.
Naruto devoured his portion in two bites, scowling at the bottom of his bowl. “That’s it? What kind of breakfast is this?!”
Sai dabbed at his lips with almost mocking refinement. “Proportioned correctly for someone of your size.”
Naruto’s head snapped up, bristling. “What’s that supposed to mean?!”
Sai’s pointed smile was infuriatingly calm. “Exactly what it sounded like.”
Their bickering rose like a familiar storm, voices rattling the rafters, until Kakashi set his cup down with a muted clink. He didn’t intervene—just let the noise wash over him like background static, a rhythm he’d long since grown used to.
Still, when he lifted the cup again, his gaze lingered on Sakura. She was uncharacteristically intent on her meal, chopsticks moving quickly as she worked through mouthful after mouthful. The bowls on her side of the table were already scraped clean, and still she reached for more, cheeks flushed too brightly as though appetite alone explained it. A faint sheen of sweat clung to her hairline despite the cool breeze drifting in from the open window. For a moment, watching her eat with such determination, he let himself believe she must be feeling better.
Kakashi tilted his head, watching. But he said nothing. Sakura was a medic—more than that, a stubborn one. If something were wrong, she would know it long before anyone else, and if it grew serious, she would heal herself. That was her way.
They left the village as the sun began to burn through the mist, scattering shadows across the fields. Soon the forest swallowed them again, and their rhythm returned—branch to branch, leaves whispering in the wake of their speed. The morning air was crisp, sharp in their lungs, birds scattering in startled bursts as the team tore through the canopy.
At first their pace held steady. But it didn’t take long before Kakashi saw it: the slip. Sakura wasn’t keeping up. Not just lagging by a step, but losing ground in wide, undeniable stretches—entire branches between her and the others. Her landings were heavier, her recovery slower, as though her body fought against her every movement.
“Everyone hold,” Kakashi called, raising a hand. His voice cut clean through the rush of wind and rustle of leaves. It left no room for debate.
Naruto skidded to a stop on a high limb, arms flung wide for balance. He turned immediately, eyes narrowing when he saw Sakura several trees behind. “What’s going on?”
Sai landed lightly beside him, his expression unreadable but his gaze sharp on their teammate.
Kakashi’s single eye flicked between them, steady. “Continue forward. Meet our contact at the rendezvous point. I’ll double back with Sakura. She’s under the weather.”
Naruto’s mouth flew open—habit, instinct, the need to argue bursting out of him. But then Kakashi looked at him, just once, and the weight of that gaze snapped the protest off before it could form. Naruto huffed instead, fists clenching, bristling with restless energy. “Tch—fine. But you better catch up fast!”
Sai only gave a small nod, already shifting into motion, angling his body toward the mission’s direction without hesitation.
And then it was quiet again—Naruto and Sai fading into the distance, the forest swallowing their sound—leaving only Kakashi, the mist thinning, and Sakura struggling against her own breath.
Kakashi didn’t take his eye off the treeline until both boys had vanished into the forest’s depths, their voices and movement lost to distance. The silence that followed seemed too loud, pressing in. Only then did he turn.
Sakura was slumped against the oak, her body sagging as if the bark were the only thing holding her upright. Her breaths came too fast, shallow and ragged, the uneven rhythm grating against his ear. Sweat tracked down her temples, strands of pink hair clinging damply to her face. Even from a few steps away, he could feel the heat radiating off her in thick waves.
“We’re heading back,” he said evenly, though the words had steel beneath them. “Once you’ve stabilized, we’ll regroup. I’ll send a hound with messages if needed.”
He waited for the inevitable pushback. The stubborn tilt of her chin. The sharp retort—I don’t need you hovering, I’m fine. He braced for it because it was what she always did.
But this time, nothing. Not even the flicker of her eyes to meet his. Just silence, her lashes low, her body shuddering faintly with every breath.
The hairs at the nape of his neck rose. That silence was wrong—wrong in a way training couldn’t account for, in a way that made his gut tighten.
In two strides he closed the distance. Her knees buckled just as he reached her, and he caught her before she could hit the ground. The weight of her sagging into him was alarmingly slight, her frame fever-hot, her skin damp. He crouched, gathering her against him in a fluid motion: one arm slipping under her shoulders, the other bracing beneath her knees.
She fit into the hold without resistance, her head falling against his chest, her hair damp against the rough fabric of his vest. Her body radiated heat like a forge—unnatural, consuming. He adjusted his grip automatically, muscle memory honed from carrying wounded comrades more times than he cared to count.
But this was different. This was Sakura. His student. His teammate. His medic—the one who never let herself falter, never admitted to weakness, who had patched the rest of them back together more times than he could tally. And now she was burning up in his arms, too exhausted to lift her head, too drained even to argue.
Kakashi’s jaw tightened beneath the mask. His mind ticked through possibilities: fever, infection, chakra depletion, something worse. He could analyze symptoms later. Right now, priority was shelter, water, stabilizing her vitals.
Still—beneath all the clinical calculation, something quieter gnawed at him. The way her body had gone limp against his without hesitation. The way she hadn’t even tried to protest. It unsettled him more than the heat or the sweat.
He stood, holding her as though she weighed nothing at all, and started back toward the village. His strides were steady, precise, but inside he could feel the faint, unwelcome edge of urgency pressing harder than he’d like to admit.
Her scent hit him then—sharp, unfamiliar, wrong in a way he couldn’t quite define. Not sickness, not the sour edge of infection or the stale tang of chakra depletion. No, this was something else. Something foreign curling in his nose, needling his instincts, making his muscles twitch as though urging him to pay closer attention.
But fever and exhaustion explained enough. It had to. He forced the unease down, burying it beneath pragmatism. He was a shinobi; he’d learned long ago to file such things away until they proved useful.
“Hang on, Sakura,” he murmured, voice low, steady, as if speaking it aloud could anchor her. He adjusted his grip and turned back toward the village.
Still, in the pit of his stomach, a taut thread pulled tighter with every step.
By the time Kakashi carried her through the quiet gates, dusk had fallen again. The streets were hushed, lanterns spilling warm pools of light that wavered against shuttered walls. The air smelled faintly of soy and smoke, dinner fires lingering in the night. Villagers glanced up as he passed, but no one stopped him; he was a shinobi, and shinobi carrying their wounded was nothing new.
The innkeeper recognized him immediately from the night before. Fortune tilted in his favor—several travelers had departed that morning, leaving rooms open. Kakashi asked for one with a kitchenette, his tone polite but clipped. Better to plan for longer. If Sakura was truly ill, she might not bounce back as quickly as she always claimed.
Inside, the room was plain but serviceable: two low beds, a table and chairs, a washstand with a mirror, and a narrow doorway leading to a tiled bath. Kakashi crossed straight to the nearest bed and lowered Sakura onto it with the same practiced ease he’d used in battlefields and triage tents. His movements were quiet, deliberate, the kind of efficiency that came from years of repetition—but this time, every step felt heavier.
Her skin burned even through his gloves as he eased her down. He crouched at her side, unfastening her sandals one by one and setting them neatly near the closet. Then his hands moved to her vest, tugging at the zipper with a soft rasp. The flak jacket came away heavy, smelling faintly of dust and pine, and he set it aside. Without the extra weight, she looked smaller, too fragile against the wide bed, swallowed in fabric that clung damp to her skin.
But it was her face that caught him, held him. Too flushed. Cheeks blotched an unnatural pink, brow damp, lips pale beneath the heat staining her skin. Her breaths came shallow, uneven, like her lungs couldn’t quite keep up.
Kakashi frowned beneath his mask, his hand hovering before he let it ghost down to her wrist. Her pulse leapt beneath his fingers—fast, frantic, nothing like the steady beat he was used to. He lingered there a moment, listening to the drum of it, feeling the fever that radiated from her like a furnace.
Her temperature was climbing fast. Too fast.
And for the first time in a long while, Kakashi felt a prick of unease he couldn’t bury under discipline.
He rose silently, his chair scraping faintly against the floorboards, and crossed into the narrow bathroom. The stone tiles were cool beneath his sandals, the trickle of water filling the basin breaking the hush that clung to the room. He plunged the cloth in, wrung it out until water streamed between his fingers, then returned with it folded square in his palm.
Sakura hadn’t stirred. She lay as she had before—brow damp, chest rising shallowly. Kakashi set the cloth against her forehead with deliberate care. The cold met her fevered skin, and almost at once her body responded. A soft sound slipped unbidden from her lips, her shoulders sagging against the mattress as though tension had finally loosened its hold.
Kakashi’s own breath left him in a long, quiet sigh. He flexed his fingers once, then brought his hands together. The sequence of seals came as easily as breathing. Chakra flared briefly, and with a puff of smoke, Pakkun appeared at his side.
The pug shook himself once, then lifted his snout. His nose twitched—once, twice—and froze. Ears pricked forward, sharp, his dark eyes swung to Kakashi. Narrowed.
“Oi, boss.” His voice was blunt, carrying an edge that cut. “Why does it reek of heat in here?”
Kakashi went very still. For a moment he wondered if fatigue was warping his senses, if exhaustion had garbled Pakkun’s words. “…What?”
Pakkun’s stare was flat, incredulous. “Don’t play dumb. You mean to tell me you don’t smell it? You—who never shuts up about that sharp nose of yours? Blind as a brick, you are right now.” He gave a low snort, tail flicking once against the floorboards. “That’s a heat, plain as day. Strong one, too.”
“…That doesn’t make any sense.” The words came slower than he meant, quieter, like something heavy dragging them down.
Pakkun huffed, his jowls twitching. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting in it this whole time without realizing. How distracted are you, boss?” His nose twitched again, sharp and sure, ears flicking toward the wall where Sakura lay. “No mistaking it. It’s her. You’d have to be dead not to notice.”
Kakashi’s throat tightened. He swallowed, dry, gaze flicking almost against his will toward the thin partition of wood, to the faint sound of uneven breaths just beyond it. “…You’re certain.”
“Certain?” Pakkun let out a short, rough laugh. “Boss, I could track this from half a village away. It’s thick as smoke in here. And you—” his eyes narrowed, pointed “—you didn’t smell it? Not possible. Either you’re losing your touch… or you didn’t want to admit what you already knew.”
His chest constricted, tight enough that it felt like his lungs forgot how to draw air. A low thrum of dread reverberated through him as the truth settled, inescapable. He had caught her on the cusp in the forest—pre-heat, when her steps faltered, when her body sagged and refused to answer her will. He hadn’t seen it for what it was. But between the moment he laid her down and the summoning of Pakkun, the tide had already turned.
Kakashi swore beneath his breath, the sound muffled by fabric, rougher than he intended. He had never even thought to consider this. He hadn’t let the possibility so much as brush against his mind. Sakura was a medic-nin: meticulous, precise, always in control. Always prepared. He had assumed—without question—that she would have taken suppressants for missions like this. That she, of all people, would have guarded against it.
The possibility hadn’t even flickered across his radar. And now here they were.
His breath stalled, caught in the narrow space between denial and realization. Heat.
And once the word took root, he couldn’t push it away. He couldn’t not smell it. Now that he turned his senses toward it, there was no mistaking the truth: it pressed into the room thick and insistent, curling into every breath he dragged past his mask. It threaded deep, scratching at his throat, coating the back of his tongue with something sharp-sweet and cloying.
His muscles went taut, a shiver of restraint running down his spine. Fingers curled tight at his sides, the ache of tension searing through his knuckles as the raw, feral urge slammed into him. Instinct rose in a wave, brutal and unyielding—the ancient, buried drive to close the distance, to cover, to claim.
For a man who had lived his whole life mastering control, it struck with an almost obscene force. His body knew, even when his mind tried to deny it.
And for the first time in years, Kakashi felt the fragile line between instinct and discipline strain—thin, dangerous, ready to snap.
He clenched his jaw until it ached, the grind of teeth sharp in his skull.
Absolutely not.
On the bed, Sakura shifted again, the sheets whispering under her weight. Her thighs pressed tight together with an unconscious urgency, hips rolling faintly as though her body was chasing relief it couldn’t find. Sweat gleamed at her temples, slid down the curve of her throat, catching the lanternlight in fever-bright streaks. Then came the sound—soft, involuntary, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.
It cut through Kakashi like a blade. Straight, merciless, unerring. The sound lodged deep in his chest, right where the frayed threads of his control were already straining. His muscles locked, every nerve standing on edge.
“Pull it together,” he muttered. The words were low, rasped out between clenched teeth, brittle as glass. He forced them into the air as though sheer will could give them weight. But they shattered on contact with the charged stillness of the room. Paper-thin. Hollow. Nothing against the pull of instinct clawing at him from all sides.
From the floor, Pakkun’s eyes gleamed dark and cutting, sharper than steel. He didn’t bother softening the edge in his voice. “So?” the pug said flatly, unimpressed. “What’s the plan, boss? Because she’s not riding this out alone.”
The bluntness landed heavier than the heat in the air, heavier than the scent that curled, thick and insistent, into every breath. It hit Kakashi square, a truth he couldn’t sidestep. Harder than watching Sakura shift restlessly against the sheets. Harder than the sound of her breath breaking unevenly, need pressing through her body like a tide.
Those words dragged something up from where he’d buried it deep, a memory he had thought smothered. It came rushing back, unbidden, hurling him to another night—the one when everything had come too close. When discipline had teetered under the weight of instinct, when proximity and pressure had stripped away every line he swore never to cross.
His throat went tight, breath stalling hard against the mask.
That memory was supposed to be a scar, sealed long ago, smoothed over by time and distance. But standing here—her scent thick in his lungs, her body writhing faintly in fevered need—it split open like a fresh wound. Raw. Immediate. Demanding to be reckoned with.
Flashback
It had been after a mission that left them both ragged—bruises blossoming dark across skin, cuts stinging under half-healed scabs, chakra reserves hollowed out to embers. The storm had driven them into a remote hunter’s cabin, the roof groaning beneath the weight of rain, wind pressing like a hand against the shutters. There had been no fire at first, only the damp cold sinking into the marrow of their bones and the rasp of their breathing filling the shadows.
Sakura had tended herself with the steady, practiced movements of a medic who had done this a thousand times. Bandages wound neatly over her arm, her shoulder, her side. The lamplight had thrown her into relief—strong lines, sharper edges than he remembered. She had changed so much: the roundness of youth stripped away, her body honed by years of war, her gaze steady in a way that had nothing to do with naivety anymore. No trace left of the girl who once clung to his every word.
Her vest had come off, heavy with water and blood. Beneath it, her throat had been bare, pale skin gleaming where her damp hair clung to her cheeks. He hadn’t meant to notice—hadn’t meant to linger on the slope of her collarbone, the curve of her hip as she shifted, the quiet strength radiating from her posture. But his eye had followed all the same, and she had felt it.
When she looked up, her eyes caught his with unnerving clarity.
“You don’t have to keep pretending I’m still your student,” she said softly.
Her voice was steady, almost gentle, but beneath it lay something else—curiosity, challenge, want. She rose from where she’d been seated, closing the space between them by deliberate degrees. The cabin seemed to shrink with every step she took.
He felt it before she even touched him: the brush of her chakra against his, warm, coaxing, deliberate. Like a hand at his chest, urging him not to retreat. She tilted her chin, green eyes bright and unwavering, and drew close enough that her breath ghosted against the edge of his mask.
“You know I’m your equal now,” she whispered. “Don’t you?”
The words struck him harder than any kunai—sharp, cutting, undeniable. For a single, dangerous heartbeat, instinct surged. Visceral. Primal. His hand twitched at his side, aching to close the last inch, to test the weight of her body against his, to see if her lips tasted like the storm-charged air curling through the cracks in the walls.
But he didn’t. Couldn’t. He stepped back instead, pulse hammering so hard it hurt, his eye never breaking from hers.
And she let him go. She allowed the space, just as he forced himself to take it, but neither without a tell. His restraint trembled at the edges, her smirk curved sharp and knowing, and together they balanced on that taut line of denial—both wanting, both waiting, both complicit in the hold.
Back to Present
Now, standing over her flushed, restless body, her scent spilling like wildfire into every corner of the room, Kakashi felt the razor’s edge return—only sharper this time, honed to a lethal point.
That night in the cabin had been a temptation, yes—but one he could resist. She had teased, dared, pressed herself close enough to make him feel the danger. But it had been words, will, choice. A challenge he could step back from.
This was different.
Here, it wasn’t a game. Her body was betraying her, dragging her past the boundary she’d once toyed with. Instinct had stripped away her restraint, leaving only need.
And his were answering.
Kakashi’s chest rose and fell too fast, each breath catching heat that scorched down his throat. His instincts whispered mine in a voice that was older than discipline, older than thought. The word seared through him, demanding, undeniable. He ground it down, forcing it into ash, the ache in his jaw sharp where his teeth locked.
He couldn’t. Wouldn’t. That line—once broken—could never be rebuilt.
But Pakkun had been right. She couldn’t ride this out alone.
That left him here, staring down at her: the sweat beading across her brow, the restless twist of her body against the sheets, the shallow drag of every breath. He knew he was standing on the thinnest line of his life, knew that once it snapped there would be no turning back, no pretending it hadn’t happened.
The room was too quiet. Too charged. The only sound was her breathing. At first shallow, uneven, like lungs fighting against fever. Then it shifted. Broke.
A whimper slipped out—soft, frustrated, aching—and it prickled the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Another followed, rougher, her voice cracking under it.
Kakashi turned his head slightly, as though the angle might dull the sound, might give him a scrap of distance. It didn’t.
On the bed, Sakura writhed faintly. The damp cloth he’d placed on her forehead slipped away as she tossed, twisting it from her skin with a jerky motion. Her hands curled weakly in the blanket, tugging, twisting the fabric like she could wring the fire out of her own body.
“Hot…” The word broke, more breath than voice. She swallowed, gasped again, the sound sharp with strain. “Hurts…”
Her legs shifted restlessly, her hips rising half off the mattress before sagging again. Tears stood at the corners of her lashes, clinging before sliding down to her temple.
Then, raw and helpless, the plea fell from her lips—thin, cracking, more a whine than speech.
“Make it stop…”
The sound punched through him like a kunai to the ribs, leaving him standing at the edge of instinct and control with nothing but his breath to mark the difference.
Kakashi shut his eye, dragging in a breath and letting it out slow, uneven. He had heard every kind of sound war could wring out of a body—the ragged keening of shinobi bleeding out, the guttural sobs of men torn open by loss, the silence of those too far gone to scream. But this—this was different. This was softer, rawer. It was instinct wound into sound, stripped of language, a plea that went straight to the pit of his stomach and clenched there.
His pulse kicked hard, pounding in his ears.
Her scent kept thickening, curling deeper into the room with every second. Not illness. Not exhaustion. Heat. Sharp, intoxicating, threaded with something sweet that caught and clung in his throat. Each inhale dragged it deeper, filling his lungs, seeping into his blood until it felt like it was part of him. His body reacted before his mind could shove it down—the taut coil of muscle, the spark of want flaring low and heavy.
Then another sound left her. Higher this time. Desperate. Pain and need tangled into a cry that wavered and broke. Her thighs pressed together again, tight and trembling, her back arching off the mattress as though her skin itself had become too tight to hold her. The damp sheets twisted beneath her hands.
Kakashi dragged a hand down his face, the leather of his glove rasping faint against his mask. He stayed rooted where he was, muscles locked. His instincts howled in his veins—move, touch her, ease her, she’s yours to steady, yours to answer. The urge was raw, feral, older than training. It battered against the iron of his restraint, until even his chest ached with the strain of keeping still.
But he couldn’t. Not without crossing a line that could never be uncrossed. A line he had already once nearly stumbled over.
“Sakura…” His voice came low, rougher than he intended, cracking through the thick silence like a blade.
She stilled faintly at the sound, breath catching. Slowly, she turned her face toward him. Her eyes were glazed, pupils blown wide until green was nearly swallowed whole. Her lips parted, damp, as though she meant to form his name, to reach for him with words.
But what came instead was another soft whimper.
A broken fragment of want and hurt.
And it hit him harder than any scream ever could.
He swore under his breath, the sound rough and muffled behind the mask.
She was under it now, pulled too far into the tide to resist. He could hear it in every ragged, broken complaint that slipped past her lips, see it in the restless twitch of her limbs as her body fought itself. Fever and instinct had swallowed her whole.
And all he could do was stand there, every nerve raw, every instinct in him screaming to answer her. His control held—but only barely. Each sound she made, each soft whimper, chipped another piece off the iron he had forged around himself.
Kakashi dragged his gaze from her flushed, restless body—cheeks burning, thighs shifting against the sheets in a way that made his throat tighten—and forced himself to look down instead. Pakkun’s eyes caught his, sharp and unrelenting.
When Kakashi spoke, his voice came low and clipped, every word banded in steel, though he could feel the fracture lines spidering beneath.
“Go to Naruto. Tell him to proceed as planned with Sai, and to meet our contact without us. Deliver the same to the contact directly. And…”
The next words stalled in his throat, dragging like glass across raw skin. He forced them out anyway.
“Report to the Hokage. Tell her circumstances here have changed, and I’ll keep Sakura contained until she’s… stable.”
The silence that followed was thin, humming with the heat of Sakura’s uneven breathing.
Pakkun’s nose twitched, ears flicking toward the bed. He sniffed once, deliberate, then gave a dry huff. “Stable, huh?” The word carried more bite than question. “That what we’re calling it?”
The remark cut sharper than it had any right to, but Kakashi only stared back, his single eye flat, unreadable. He didn’t have the luxury of admitting how hollow the word tasted in his mouth, how thin his control already felt.
Pakkun held his gaze a beat longer, unimpressed, before grunting low. “Fine. Your mess. But if you’re keeping her here…” He padded to the sill, claws clicking against the wood. “…you’d better know what you’re doing. Fire this hot doesn’t just go out on its own.”
The words lingered after he vanished in a puff of smoke, the silence that followed pressing heavier than before.
The smoke dispersed, leaving the room in its hush again—just the faint hiss of lantern flame and the shallow sound of Sakura’s breathing. Without Pakkun’s blunt voice filling the space, the weight of his warning seemed louder than if he’d shouted it.
Fire this hot doesn’t just go out on its own.
Kakashi stood motionless in the center of the room, every muscle locked against the pull that pressed harder with each breath. Her scent curled around him, saturating the air until there was no place left untouched by it. It clung under his mask, coated the back of his throat, dug sharp claws into every rational thought.
On the bed, Sakura shifted again, her body twisting in restless arcs. Her hands tugged at the blanket, the fabric knotted beneath her fists. Her hair clung damp to her temples, strands plastered to her flushed skin. A broken sound slipped free, high and needy, and Kakashi’s chest clenched so hard it hurt.
He turned away sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, nails scraping faint against his scalp as if pain might cut through the haze. He had fought his whole life to master instinct, to bind it under discipline so absolute nothing could break it. But this—this was different. This was her.
He could feel it in the marrow of him: the heat didn’t just cling to her, it called. Every ragged sound she made lit something primal under his skin, something that whispered she was his to steady, his to take.
His eye squeezed shut, the scar beneath his mask pulling tight with the force of it. No. He wouldn’t cross that line. Not with her.
But he also couldn’t ignore her. Her body arched again, thighs trembling, her breath splintering into a sound that was more plea than anything else. She was fighting it even in her unconsciousness, clawing against her own skin.
Kakashi’s hands curled into fists. The line he stood on had never felt thinner. Instinct howled for one solution; discipline demanded another.
And between them lay Sakura—burning, writhing, whispering for help.
Silence, and Sakura.
The room held its breath.
But when the door closed, the silence cracked.
“Ahh—Kakashi…”
His name spilled from her lips, hoarse and broken. It cut through him like steel.
On the bed she moved without rest—hips shifting, legs knotting in the sheets, the blanket tangled low at her waist. One hand clawed at the linen, knuckles white, while the other pressed flat to her chest as if she could hold herself together. Her breaths came fast, shallow, each one shaking her frame.
“It…hurts,” she whispered, then gasped—a sound that broke into a whimper, pitched low, slipping into a moan before she could stop it. Need threaded every note.
Kakashi gritted his teeth and drew in air, but the effort only pulled her scent deeper. Sweet, cloying, unbearable. His gut coiled, heat rushing through him in a tide he could not fully deny. He pressed his palm to the wall, bowed his head, forced every muscle to lock against the instinct to move.
But behind him she writhed. Her body wouldn’t be still—hips twisting against the mattress, thighs shifting, sweat beading at her temple and sliding down to the hollow of her throat. Her voice lifted again, fractured, his name breaking apart in her mouth.
“Kakashi…”
He clenched his hand until his nails cut skin. “Damn it,” he muttered, raw, guttural.
Still, the sounds kept coming. Small, helpless threads of noise. Each one wound tighter around his chest, squeezed until he couldn’t breathe. He turned at last, unable to pretend he wasn’t listening.
She faced him through half-lidded eyes, lashes damp, lips parted. Her body curved toward him unconsciously, as though instinct knew what it wanted more clearly than words.
He swore under his breath, harsher this time. His body moved before thought could stop it. One step. Then another. Until the scent of her wrapped around him wholly, until the heat of her filled the space between them, until there was no space left at all.
His hands curled tight at his sides, leather stretching taut over his knuckles. Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to carve space before the thin edge of his restraint snapped entirely. He should step back. He should put the wall at his spine, lock himself behind it, breathe until the tremor in his chest steadied.
But then she whimpered. Softer this time, barely more than a breath, but it unraveled him all the same. Her hand shifted blindly across the mattress, fingers scraping at the sheets as though reaching for something—someone.
Kakashi’s chest constricted hard, breath sticking in his throat. He couldn’t stand there and watch her fall apart piece by piece, not when every sound she made cut through him like shrapnel.
Deliberately—slow, as if even gravity might accuse him—he lowered himself to the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and she responded without thought, her body tilting toward it like iron pulled to a lodestone.
“Easy,” he murmured, but the word rasped low and rough, betraying the strain beneath. His hand hovered, suspended over her wrist, trembling once before surrendering to the inevitable. The lightest touch—gloved fingers brushing hot skin—and she eased. Her shoulders slackened, the rigid line of tension uncoiling. A sigh spilled from her lips, small but devastating, carrying both relief and a plea unspoken.
Kakashi bowed his head, his lone eye squeezed shut as if darkness could dam the tide rising inside him. He hadn’t known how close he stood to the precipice until that sound slipped from her lips—soft, wrecked, and piercing straight through him. It lodged in his chest like steel, impossible to pull free.
The line was still there, yes—thin, trembling, already frayed to threads. But with every breath she drew in his presence, with every ragged exhale that wrapped the air between them in her scent, he felt himself dragged closer to it. Each inhale was a tether, each heartbeat another step toward a cliff he’d sworn never to cross.
She moved without thought, guided only by instinct—seeking heat, seeking solidity. Seeking him.
And Kakashi sat rigid, every muscle locked as though tension alone could keep him from shattering. But her scent smothered him, thick and inescapable, curling through his lungs, feeding the ache already burning low in his gut. His body screamed with the strain of resisting, tendons taut, breath dragged rough through clenched teeth.
“Kakashi…”
The sound of his name—hoarse, wrecked, torn straight from her without thought—split him open. It wasn’t the voice of a soldier calling for her commander. It wasn’t the whisper of a student reaching for her teacher. It was raw, instinctive need, stripped bare and aimed squarely at him.
The last of his control wavered.
Her fingers clenched weakly in his pants, dragging, pleading without words. Her body pressed closer, cheek hot against his thigh, and the fever of her skin radiated through every barrier he had left. Each wave of heat seared deeper, each ragged breath against him tore away another thread of restraint.
“It hurts…” she breathed, voice thin and cracked. Her lips moved against him as she whispered, trembling, “Too hot… please…”
The plea broke him.
Kakashi swore, raw and jagged, his voice nothing but gravel. His hand moved without thought, covering hers where it clutched at him, gloved fingers tightening, holding her as if that alone could anchor the storm inside them both.
But it wasn’t enough.
His other hand slid into her hair, trembling once before it pushed through the damp strands, sweeping them back from her fever-flushed face. The heat of her seared his palm, but he couldn’t pull away. She sighed at the contact—a fragile, desperate sound—and it gutted him completely.
The line snapped.
Kakashi bent over her, his forehead brushing hers, his breath breaking ragged across her skin. He had fought, gods, he had fought, but her voice, her scent, her pleas stripped him bare.
His mouth found her temple first—soft, almost reverent, though his body shook with restraint gone to ruin. The next kiss landed at her hairline, then down to the arch of her cheek, and lower still until he reached the corner of her mouth. Each touch seared him, each taste dragged him deeper into instinct.
“Kakashi…” she breathed again, cracked and pleading, and that was it. His lips crashed against hers, no longer soft but consuming, answering the call she hadn’t even realized she’d made.
Her whimper spilled into his mouth, shuddering, need threaded through the sound. Her fingers caught tighter in his pants, anchoring him as surely as he anchored her.
His hand slid from hers, moving up her arm, tracing heat over sweat-damp skin until he cupped her shoulder, then lower, drawing her closer until her body pressed fully into his. The fever of her bled into him, a wildfire devouring the last fragments of distance.
She writhed against him, clumsy but insistent, her instincts driving her closer, closer. He met her halfway, mouth deepening over hers, hand tangling harder in her hair. A growl rumbled in his chest, low and guttural, as if his body itself rejected the last traces of control.
She clung to him—heat and need and desperate sound—and Kakashi gave in.
Kakashi’s mouth crashed to hers, all the restraint he had left devoured in an instant. The kiss was rough, consuming—heat and teeth and breathless need. She whimpered against him, the sound thin, helpless, but clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world gone molten.
Her fingers fumbled higher, catching in the fabric at his hip, tugging weakly as her body pressed into his side. The fever of her skin bled straight through his clothes, branding him with every shift. He groaned into her mouth, the sound raw and guttural, as his hand slid down from her hair to the curve of her neck, his thumb brushing the frantic hammer of her pulse.
“Kakashi,” she breathed again, broken and ragged. It wasn’t a plea for safety. It wasn’t discipline or command. It was instinct calling instinct.
Her legs shifted, tangling in the sheets, thighs rubbing together with restless urgency. The scent hit him harder this time—thick, sweet, unmistakable. Slick. It laced the air, threaded into every breath until it was all he could taste. His body jolted with it, rut rising fast and brutal, his control obliterated.
He tore his mouth from hers with a shuddering groan, burying his face in the curve of her throat. The heat of her skin seared him; the musk of her need wrapped around him like chains. He inhaled deep, chest shaking, his teeth grazing along the damp skin just above her collarbone.
“Fuck,” he hissed, voice shredded, his hips jerking despite himself. Every instinct in him screamed for more—for skin, for contact, for the relief of sinking into her until nothing else existed.
His hands betrayed him, one sliding down her side, mapping the sweat-slick line of her waist before curving over her hip. He squeezed, fingers trembling with the force of holding back, but her body answered with another helpless roll, pressing need against him.
She was burning, drenched in slick, trembling beneath the fever of her heat. And Kakashi—teeth bared, chest heaving—was past the point of denial.
Her slick scent flooded him, heady and irresistible. He yanked at the fabric between them, gloves rasping against damp cloth as he tore it aside. The heat of her slick-slicked skin hit him immediately, burning against his fingers as they slid low, coating his touch.
She gasped, a strangled cry breaking in her throat, her hips bucking helplessly into his hand.
“Too hot,” she panted, voice cracking. “Please—”
“I know,” Kakashi rasped, his forehead pressing to hers, breath ragged, teeth bared. “I know.”
He ground against her, hard and insistent, the ache in his gut now unbearable. His hand found the seam of her slick heat, fingers spreading her open, drenched already, her body trembling as she writhed beneath him.
Her cry broke into a moan, raw and unguarded, as she clutched at his shoulders, dragging him closer.
Kakashi’s mouth crashed back to hers, devouring her whimpers as his fingers worked through the flood of slick, coating him, marking him. His hips rutted against her thigh, uncontrolled, desperate, his whole body vibrating with the feral instinct to take, to claim, to bury himself inside until the fire burned itself out.
She arched, pleading, lost in the fever of it—and Kakashi, panting, groaning, undone, finally gave her what her body demanded.
Her cry broke into a moan, ragged and pleading, slick spilling hotter with every restless grind of her hips. Kakashi swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing her deep, rough, desperate. His tongue pushed past her lips, claiming every gasp as though he could drink her down, as though breathing her was the only air that mattered.
“Kakashi—” She gasped his name again, voice breaking, high and helpless.
He growled, raw and low in his chest, the noise vibrating against her skin. His patience was gone. His body demanded more—demanded all of her. He shoved the last barriers aside, tearing cloth down and away until nothing separated him from the heat radiating between her legs.
The scent hit him like a fist. Sweet. Sharp. Drenched. His vision blurred around the edges, instincts taking him under. He pressed his hips forward, rutting against her with a shudder, his length dragging through her slick folds. Her cry cracked, breaking into a moan that shook him straight to the core.
“Please,” she begged, breath hot against his jaw. “Please—”
That was it. The last thread snapped.
With a guttural curse he lined himself up, his hand guiding through the mess of slick, and thrust inside in one rough, desperate push.
Heat swallowed him whole. Tight. Clenching. Slick pulling at him, dragging him deeper. Her back arched violently, a cry tearing out of her throat, half agony, half relief, as her body yielded to him.
Kakashi groaned low, forehead pressed to hers, sweat dripping down his temple. “Fuck…” The word rasped out of him, ruined. He pulled back, then drove in again, hips snapping sharp, rut taking over.
Her nails dug into his shoulders, weak but frantic, clinging as he pounded into her. Every stroke dragged another broken sound from her lips, each one more wrecked than the last. Her thighs locked around his waist, trapping him, pulling him closer.
Slick coated them both, spilling in waves, every thrust driving him deeper into the molten heat of her body. His chest heaved, his hips grinding harder, faster, until rhythm gave way to instinct, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room.
“Kakashi!” she cried, shuddering, body spasming around him. Her heat clamped down, wet and convulsing, milking him as her climax tore through her.
The squeeze around him, the scent of her release—he couldn’t hold back. His body snapped, rut surging to its peak. His thrusts turned frantic, desperate, until with a guttural roar he buried himself to the hilt. His knot swelled thick and fast, locking him inside her.
Her scream cracked into a moan as she clutched him tighter, body arching to take it. Slick gushed around the tie, soaking them both, scenting the air thick with heat and completion.
Kakashi shuddered, hips grinding as release ripped through him—hot, endless, flooding deep inside her until she sagged against him, trembling, breathless.
For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of their gasps, the fevered clutch of their bodies, and the unyielding knot binding them together.
Kakashi buried his face against her neck, panting, tasting the salt of her sweat. His hand cupped the back of her head, trembling but steady, holding her as the haze of rut ebbed slow.
There was no space left between them. No line left to cross. Only instinct, answered. Only need, sated. Only them, knotted together in the wreckage of restraint undone.
Kakashi stayed buried inside her, his chest heaving, every muscle drawn tight around the knot that bound them. Sweat dripped from his temple to her skin, mingling with hers, their bodies slick and trembling. Her breath came in sharp little gasps against his ear, each one hitching as if her lungs couldn’t keep pace with the fever still wracking her.
He thought for a fleeting moment that this was the collapse—that she would finally rest, eased by the flood of his release. But then her body clenched around him again.
A sudden, broken cry tore from her throat. Her hips jerked beneath his, grinding helplessly against him though he was already locked deep. The knot held them fast, no escape, and every shudder of hers dragged him tighter into the molten pull of her heat.
“Kakashi—ahh—” Her voice cracked, raw and trembling, half plea, half wrecked need. Her thighs squeezed at his waist, her nails clawing down his back in weak, frantic arcs.
His breath stuttered, a groan rasping out as her slick gushed again, hot and endless, coating him, soaking the sheets beneath them. She was drowning in another wave, her body convulsing around him, milking his length where it swelled inside her.
“Fuck—” His curse vibrated low, guttural, his hips grinding down despite the knot sealing them. Each pulse of her release squeezed him tighter, dragged a shudder through him until he felt his own restraint splinter again.
Her cries blurred into moans, her voice dissolving into sound as the wave consumed her. Every breath she took carried his name, broken and desperate, threaded through the air with the thick, sweet-sour scent of heat and slick.
Kakashi gritted his teeth, pressing his forehead to hers, panting raggedly. His body trembled with the force of holding back, but she was relentless, her need clawing at him, pulling him under with her.
Her climax didn’t ebb—it rolled, another spasm gripping her, harder, wetter. She sobbed, trembling, clutching at him as if he alone kept her from shattering apart completely.
And Kakashi, bound tight inside her, knew he was already lost to the next wave.
Her climax didn’t break like a single cresting wave. It rolled, building and breaking again, each convulsion pulling Kakashi deeper into the storm with her.
She sobbed against him, her voice catching, body arching as her slick gushed around the knot, soaking him, soaking the sheets. Her muscles seized and released, again and again, every spasm milking him tighter, harder, until he couldn’t breathe through it.
“Too much—ahh—it’s too much—” she gasped, though her body never stopped moving, hips rocking helplessly against him.
Kakashi groaned, his own voice shredded, forehead grinding into hers. He tried to still her, his hands firm at her waist, but each time her body clamped down, his hips jolted, rutting forward instinctively, grinding the knot deeper, locked fast inside her heat.
Her whimpers broke into another cry, sharp and trembling. She shook beneath him, thighs locking hard around his hips as another climax tore through her, raw and unstoppable. The sound of her release—wet, obscene—drove a snarl from his throat as his own restraint cracked apart.
He thrust, hard, brutal, as much as the knot would allow, grinding into the slick flood pouring around him. His release surged again, spilling hot and thick, forcing another sobbing moan from her throat as the wave hit them both.
Still, it didn’t stop.
Her body clutched at him, insatiable, dragging him into another spiral. Her nails raked at his back, weak but frantic, as her cries bled into moans and whimpers that carried his name in broken pieces. Each sound fed the frenzy, pushed him harder. His instincts howled, his hips driving relentlessly, his mouth finding hers, swallowing every cry as though he could tame the storm.
But the storm only grew.
Her heat pulsed in cycles, rising again before the last even faded. Her body writhed, soaked and trembling, every shift smearing slick across his thighs, her skin fever-hot beneath his touch. She bucked against him, desperate, mindless, lost to the tide.
Kakashi snarled low in his chest, rutting helplessly into her convulsing body, knot swelling tighter as she dragged him through climax after climax. His vision blurred, sweat stinging his eye, but his body couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop—not when hers demanded, not when she pulled every last drop from him, over and over, until the sheets were ruined, until their gasps echoed ragged in the walls.
By the time her cries broke into hoarse little whimpers, her body still twitching with aftershocks, Kakashi was wrecked, forehead pressed hard to hers, both of them trembling, bound, and soaked in the ruin of their own surrender.
And still, he knew—another wave was coming.
The storm lasted until neither of them could breathe. Wave after wave, her body wrung him dry, slick flooding between them, until his hips stuttered helplessly and her cries dissolved into hoarse little whimpers.
Even then, her body tried to move—weak, twitching, instinct refusing to surrender—but exhaustion had its hold. Her limbs shook, boneless against him, her head lolling into the crook of his shoulder.
Kakashi groaned low, his chest heaving, his body trembling with the weight of what he had given. The knot still bound them tight, throbbing with each slow pulse of release, but his strength had bled out, leaving him shuddering, wrecked.
Her cheek pressed to his neck, damp with sweat, breath shivering against his skin. She clung faintly to his vest, fingers curled but loose, as if even unconsciousness wouldn’t let her let go.
Kakashi bowed his head, lips brushing her temple, his breath catching on the mess of hair plastered there. He should’ve pulled away—should’ve stopped long before the line was broken—but with her knotted to him, trembling but eased at last, there was no space for regret.
Just silence. Just heat. Just the ragged rise and fall of their lungs, bound together until sleep claimed them both.
The morning light bled into day, but inside the room there was no time—only the rhythm of bodies, the rise and fall of fevered breath, the slick sound of heat dragging them under again and again.
Sakura’s moans blurred into sobs, into gasps, into helpless whimpers that always broke on his name. Her thighs locked tight around his waist, her hips rolling weakly even when she was too spent to move. Her body begged for him without words, clenching, convulsing, pouring slick until it drenched them both, the sheets ruined beneath.
And Kakashi gave her everything.
His rut drove him mercilessly, instinct clawing to the surface until there was nothing left of restraint. He rutted into her relentlessly, each thrust deep and grinding, his knot swelling tight every time he spilled inside her. Her cries only urged him harder, teeth bared against her skin as he marked her throat, her shoulder, her collarbone with the press of his mouth.
She broke again and again, each climax dragging him with her. Her body seized and fluttered around him, milking every drop until his groans turned guttural, until he was rutting helplessly through the overspill, filling her until it seeped hot around the knot and smeared across her thighs.
And when her heat surged fresh, he answered without pause. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, pinning her down as he drove into her fever, drowning with her, binding her until there was no space left between them.
Hours blurred into each other. Day into night. The world beyond the four walls ceased to exist. There was only the endless cycle of fever and instinct: her body pulling, his body answering, again and again, until the line between them dissolved entirely.
By the time her heat began to ebb, her voice was gone—hoarse, spent, her lips only able to shape his name against his skin in whispers. She lay trembling beneath him, sweat-soaked and wrecked, but still clinging faintly, still rolling her hips in the smallest unconscious movements even as sleep tugged at her.
Kakashi’s body gave until it was raw, rut finally slowing to ragged grinds. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath shuddering, his arm still locked tight around her. The knot held them bound deep, sealing him inside, his release pulsing slow and steady as the fever at last loosened its grip.
They collapsed together, trembling, ruined.
And though the spiral had dragged them both to breaking, neither could move. Bound, slick-soaked, fever-drained, they lay entwined, the world still nothing but the heat between them.
The room was heavy with heat. The sheets clung damp to their skin, the air thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and slick—so dense it felt like breathing her was the only way to breathe at all.
Kakashi’s chest heaved against hers, every muscle trembling with exhaustion, yet his body refused to let her go. The knot anchored them still, pulsing faintly, keeping him buried deep inside where her heat still clutched around him, weak but insistent.
Sakura shivered beneath him, though not from cold. Her body twitched with aftershocks, thighs trembling against his hips, each flutter dragging a groan from his throat. She tried to speak, but her voice cracked into nothing, only a broken whimper slipping free. Her lips brushed against his jaw instead, breath hot and shallow.
He cupped the back of her head, fingers tangled in sweat-damp hair, pressing her face into the curve of his neck. “Easy,” he rasped, though the word was hollow, wrecked. His own hips betrayed him, grinding faintly, instinct still pulling even as the fever slackened.
She clung weakly, fingers curled into the fabric of his vest, her body pliant but unrelenting in its need to stay close. The faint roll of her hips against him told him her body wasn’t done—even if this wave had ebbed, another could rise again without warning.
Kakashi pressed his forehead to hers, eyes squeezed shut, panting ragged into the space between them. He could taste her fever in the air, feel it in the burn of her skin, the slick still seeping hot around the knot that locked them together.
They were wrecked. Shaking. Bound.
And yet, even in the fragile silence, he felt it—that restless hum still alive beneath her skin, waiting.
The fever hadn’t let her go. Not yet
The room was thick with the aftermath—heat pressed into every corner, sheets tangled and drenched, the air saturated with the musk of sweat and slick. Every breath Kakashi drew tasted of her, heavy and cloying, but the fevered edge of it was dulling now, tapering off.
His body trembled with each inhale, chest heaving against hers, but the rut’s wild pulse had quieted. The knot still held them fast, swollen and unyielding, keeping him buried deep inside her, but the urgency had bled out, leaving only the slow, residual throb of release.
Sakura shuddered beneath him, small tremors running through her limbs, but not the frantic spasms of heat anymore—just the frail quakes of exhaustion. Her thighs had loosened around his hips, her body slack against him, though she still clung faintly to his vest, fingers curled weakly in the fabric.
Her breath puffed shallow against his jaw, hot but uneven, no longer the frantic gasps of a body demanding. A soft sound slipped from her throat, little more than a sigh.
Kakashi exhaled raggedly, his forehead pressing to hers. His hand cupped the back of her head, stroking damp strands away from her face. “Rest,” he murmured, voice low and spent, the word carrying something softer now—less command, more comfort.
Her eyes fluttered, lids heavy, and she leaned into his touch without thought, cheek brushing the line of his jaw. The fever still radiated from her skin, but it was different now—less sharp, less consuming, a fading burn instead of wildfire.
He held her tighter, steadying her as the silence thickened between them. Their bodies stayed locked, still knotted, but the restless push was gone. In its place was only the weight of exhaustion and the slow, fragile relief of knowing the worst had finally passed.
Kakashi sagged against her, no strength left to hold himself up. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath coming slow, heavy, but no longer frantic. The knot still bound them deep, pulsing faintly, but even that rhythm felt gentler now, steady instead of consuming.
Sakura stirred weakly beneath him, her body slack, trembling with fatigue. A soft sound slipped from her lips, closer to a sigh than a whimper, her cheek brushing along the line of his jaw. Her eyes fluttered once, then drifted shut, lashes damp against flushed skin.
Kakashi’s hand found the back of her head, cradling her, stroking damp strands of hair away. He whispered her name once, hoarse, but she was already gone—sinking into the pull of sleep, clinging only faintly to the fabric of his vest as though she couldn’t quite let go even in rest.
He tightened his hold around her, pulling her closer against his chest. The air still reeked of fever, of slick and sweat, but its edge no longer gnawed at him. The fire had burned itself down, leaving only the warmth of her body pressed to his, bound tight and inescapable.
For the first time since it began, Kakashi let his eye fall shut too, his breath evening out against her temple as sleep finally took him.
When Kakashi stirred again, the light in the room had shifted. The harsh white of morning had softened into the warm gold of late afternoon. The silence was different now—no longer pressed thick with the storm of heat, but quieter, gentler, the air cleared of its fevered weight.
The knot had eased at some point while they slept, leaving him free, though the ghost of it lingered in the deep ache low in his body. His clothes clung to him, stiff with sweat, the sheets twisted and ruined beneath them.
Sakura lay curled against him still, her forehead tucked under his chin, breath slow and even. The flush of fever had faded from her skin, leaving her pale but calmer, her body finally still. Her hand remained caught faintly in his vest, as though even in sleep she had refused to let go.
Kakashi lay there a long while, unmoving, listening to the rhythm of her breathing. His own chest rose and fell more steadily now, the burn of rut dulled to a quiet throb, the haze burned away. What remained was exhaustion—and her. Always her.
But the stillness couldn’t last forever. Awareness seeped back in, piece by piece—the wreckage of tangled sheets, the damp heat clinging to the air, the reminder of all they’d done. It pressed at him, insistent, until his body finally refused to carry it any longer. Weariness claimed him, and with her breath steady in his ears, he slipped into sleep.
The light came in thin, pale stripes through the slats of the shutters, cutting across the tangled sheets. The room smelled thick of sweat and sex, the heavy perfume of heat still clinging stubbornly to the air.
Kakashi woke first. His body ached everywhere—muscles wrung out, throat raw, skin sticky with the remnants of the night. He shifted faintly and was immediately reminded of the knot still nestled deep inside her, holding them together even in the soft spill of morning.
Sakura stirred at the movement, a faint hum vibrating against his chest. Her lashes fluttered open, eyes bleary, still edged with exhaustion. She blinked once, twice, before awareness settled—and with it, a sharp flush spread over her already-heated cheeks.
Kakashi’s throat went dry.
For a long moment neither of them spoke. The silence pressed in heavy, filled with everything they had done, everything they hadn’t said. Her breath hitched faintly as she shifted against him, the reality of their closeness impossible to ignore.
Finally, Kakashi exhaled, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “You’re awake.” His voice came rough, low, almost hoarse from the night before.
Sakura swallowed, her throat working. She nodded once, eyes flicking down, then away. Her body trembled faintly—residual heat, aftershocks, exhaustion—it was hard to tell.
He wanted to say something practical, clinical—something that would fold this into a medic’s report, something that would strip the edge off what had happened. But the words wouldn’t come. All he could think about was the sound of her voice begging his name, the way she’d clung to him, the endless cycle that had consumed them both.
“You—” He broke off, cleared his throat. Tried again. “How do you feel?”
Sakura’s gaze lifted then, sharp despite her lingering exhaustion. There was no hiding in it, no denial. Just honesty. “Like I don’t regret it.”
The words hit him harder than a kunai. He froze, every instinct warring with the weight of them. She could have dismissed it as heat, as biology, as nothing but instinct. But she hadn’t.
Her hand moved then, tentative but steady, resting lightly against his chest where his heart still pounded beneath the skin. She leaned into him, her cheek brushing his shoulder, her voice soft but sure.
“And like I don’t want you to regret it either.”
Kakashi’s eye shut briefly, the tension in his shoulders taut as wire. He had spent his whole life drawing lines, keeping walls. Last night had burned them to ash. And now, in the quiet morning, she was offering him no way to rebuild them.
His arms tightened around her slowly, deliberately, pulling her closer. No words, not yet—he didn’t trust his voice. But the answer was there, in the way he held her, in the way he didn’t let go.
The silence lingered, soft and heavy, but not unbearable. Not anymore. Sakura shifted, stretching her legs gingerly as the knot finally eased and released. Kakashi helped her without thinking, steadying her hips, his touch careful, reverent in a way last night had not allowed.
She winced faintly but didn’t pull away, curling back into his chest once she was settled. His hand smoothed down her spine in slow, steady passes, grounding them both.
After a while, he moved—reluctantly—to slip out of bed. She stirred at the loss of his warmth, but when he returned from the bathroom with a damp towel, she understood. He knelt by her side and cleaned her gently, his touch meticulous, quiet. She watched him through half-lidded eyes, something softer than exhaustion in her gaze.
“You don’t have to,” she murmured.
“Mm,” was all he gave in reply, not looking at her, the faintest tilt of his mouth betraying the truth: he wanted to.
When he was finished, he disappeared into the kitchenette. She heard the faint clatter of a pot, the low boil of water. Soon, the small room smelled of tea and miso broth—simple, steadying.
He set the tray on the bedside table, helping her sit up against the headboard. She accepted the bowl with a faint smile, hands brushing his as she did. “Thank you.”
Kakashi sat beside her, sipping from his own cup in silence. The morning light slanted across his bare shoulders, silver hair mussed, his mask forgotten on the chair. For the first time, she saw him unguarded—not Hatake Kakashi the jōnin, not her teacher, not the mask. Just the man.
Sakura leaned into him, her head finding the curve of his shoulder as naturally as if she’d always belonged there. He stiffened for only a moment before relaxing, his free hand curling gently over hers where it rested in her lap.
No words, no definitions. Just warmth, tea, and the quiet press of bodies still recovering from something too big for either of them to name yet.
For the first time in years, Kakashi let himself breathe—really breathe—and didn’t feel the need to pull away.
The silence lingered, soft and heavy, but not unbearable. Not anymore. Sakura shifted, stretching her legs gingerly as the knot finally eased and released. Kakashi helped her without thinking, steadying her hips, his touch careful, reverent in a way last night had not allowed.
She winced faintly but didn’t pull away, curling back into his chest once she was settled. His hand smoothed down her spine in slow, steady passes, grounding them both.
After a while, he moved—reluctantly—to slip out of bed. She stirred at the loss of his warmth, but when he returned from the bathroom with a damp towel, she understood. He knelt by her side and cleaned her gently, his touch meticulous, quiet. She watched him through half-lidded eyes, something softer than exhaustion in her gaze.
“You don’t have to,” she murmured.
“Mm,” was all he gave in reply, not looking at her, the faintest tilt of his mouth betraying the truth: he wanted to.
When he was finished, he disappeared into the kitchenette. She heard the faint clatter of a pot, the low boil of water. Soon, the small room smelled of tea and miso broth—simple, steadying.
He set the tray on the bedside table, helping her sit up against the headboard. She accepted the bowl with a faint smile, hands brushing his as she did. “Thank you.”
Kakashi sat beside her, sipping from his own cup in silence. The morning light slanted across his bare shoulders, silver hair mussed, his mask forgotten on the chair. For the first time, she saw him unguarded—not Hatake Kakashi the jōnin, not her teacher, not the mask. Just the man.
Sakura leaned into him, her head finding the curve of his shoulder as naturally as if she’d always belonged there. He stiffened for only a moment before relaxing, his free hand curling gently over hers where it rested in her lap.
No words, no definitions. Just warmth, tea, and the quiet press of bodies still recovering from something too big for either of them to name yet.
For the first time in years, Kakashi let himself breathe—really breathe—and didn’t feel the need to pull away.
The day passed in stillness.
They never left the room. Kakashi sent another hound to confirm with Naruto and Sai that they were to carry on, and that he and Sakura would rejoin when able. After that, the world outside faded to background—the muted sounds of the village streets below, the occasional creak of footsteps in the hall. None of it reached them.
Sakura dozed on and off, her body wrung out, drifting in shallow sleeps that always ended with her curling instinctively back into him. Kakashi didn’t move her. He stayed—reading once or twice with a slim book pulled from his pack, brewing tea, adjusting blankets. Always close enough that she could find him without opening her eyes.
By evening, she was stronger, sitting up at the small table in a clean shirt while Kakashi worked at the stove in the kitchenette. He cooked with a quiet ease that startled her—the same hands that had been brutal and unrelenting the night before now moved steady, precise, chopping vegetables, stirring rice.
She watched him in the fading light, chin propped on her palm, a faint smile tugging her lips. “You cook,” she said softly, almost amused.
He glanced over, one brow lifting. “I survive,” he corrected. But the corner of his mouth curved, just slightly.
Dinner was simple—miso, rice, fish—but it was warm, filling, and steady. They ate in companionable silence, knees brushing under the small table. Neither of them spoke of what had happened. Neither of them had to—not yet.
Later, when night folded in again and the lanterns glowed low, Sakura found herself back in bed, her body still tired but no longer trembling. Kakashi sat on the edge of the mattress, book in hand, though his eye lingered more often on her than on the page.
She shifted closer, resting her head on his thigh, curling into the warmth of his side. He hesitated for only a moment before his hand lowered, fingers brushing gently through her hair. She sighed at the touch, her body relaxing at once.
And that was how they stayed—the medic and her commander, no lines between them now, only the quiet tether of comfort, of trust, of something neither dared name yet.
The storm of the night before felt like a blur, a fever dream—but in the soft glow of the lamp, with his hand smoothing over her hair and her heartbeat steady against his leg, it was the aftermath that felt real.
~
Weeks passed before Sakura let herself test the quiet suspicion gnawing at her.
Their mission had finished without incident; Naruto and Sai had carried it through, and Kakashi and Sakura rejoined them days later. Nothing was said—at least not out loud. The team returned to Konoha, reported in, and life settled back into its usual rhythm. Missions. Hospital shifts. Training.
But beneath it all, Sakura knew.
At first, it was just instinct—the subtle shift of her chakra, the way her body hummed differently, the heavy pull of exhaustion that lingered even after her heat had passed. She kept telling herself it might be in her head, that her body was still recovering from the sheer brutality of what had happened between them. But as a medic-nin, she couldn’t ignore the signs.
Six weeks back in the village, she finally went into the hospital’s medical wing after hours, alone. The lights glowed soft against the sterile white walls as she set up the diagnostic seals, her hands steady even as her pulse thundered. Chakra flared across her palms, humming through her abdomen, sinking deep into her center.
The results bloomed instantly in her mind. Clear. Unmistakable.
She had caught.
Her hands stilled over her stomach. She sat there in the quiet of the exam room, staring down at herself with wide eyes, the weight of it pressing into her chest until she had to breathe deliberately just to keep steady.
It wasn’t fear that filled her—though the enormity of it was daunting. It was a kind of awe, a deep certainty that this wasn’t a mistake. Not anymore.
Still, the reality of what it meant—of who the father was, of how it had happened—pressed sharp at the edges of her thoughts. Kakashi. Her former sensei. Her captain. The man who had held her through a fever of instinct and crossed every line with her.
~
Since that night in the inn, they hadn’t separated. It wasn’t something they defined, not out loud—no confessions, no declarations, and certainly no bond to seal it. The line that once kept them apart had burned away completely, but the one they never crossed still lingered, quiet and unspoken. Missions blurred into evenings spent together, stolen hours in his apartment or hers, quiet meals where his mask was left on the table, the press of her hand in his under it.
It wasn’t perfect—nothing in their lives ever was—but it was steady. Familiar. Almost enough to make them forget how it had all started, and almost enough to forget that something essential had never been claimed.\
Until one evening.
They were at her place, the remnants of dinner cooling on the counter, the air warm and easy until Sakura broke the quiet. She leaned back against the kitchen table, arms folded, her eyes too sharp for the softness of her tone.
“Kakashi… what if I had caught?”
The words hung heavy between them.
For the briefest moment, something unreadable flickered in his visible eye. Then he gave the wrong answer.
“We’d deal with it,” he said simply, voice flat. Practical. Detached.
Sakura blinked. Her chest tightened. She stared at him like he had just struck her.
We’d deal with it.
Her laugh came sharp, bitter. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Not—‘we’d be okay,’ not—‘I’d want that,’ just—‘we’d deal with it’?”
Kakashi frowned, confused at the edge in her voice, but didn’t backtrack. “It’s reality, Sakura. Missions, the village, everything—it wouldn’t be easy. But we’d manage. You know that.”
She shook her head, her throat working, anger and hurt brimming at once. “Manage. Deal with it. Like it would be an inconvenience to survive, not—” her voice cracked, raw, “—not something you’d actually want.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
That silence was the answer she heard.
Her jaw trembled, but she refused to let the tears fall in front of him. She grabbed her sandals from the entryway, her movements sharp, and without another word, she vanished into the night.
By the time Kakashi processed what had just happened, the front door had already slammed shut.
And for the first time since that night in the inn, the space beside him was empty.
~
She had vanished without a trace. The silence she left behind cut sharper than steel, pressing in on every corner of the room until it seemed to hum with absence. No word. No note. Not even the faintest ghost of her scent remained. It was as though she had peeled herself out of existence, leaving nothing but the shadow of a question.
“Kakashi… what if I had caught?”
The memory slid in unbidden, bringing with it the echo of his own answer. We’d deal with it. Flat. Practical. Detached. At the time, he’d told himself it was the right thing to say—measured, steady, the voice of someone who couldn’t afford to waver. But now, in the hollow quiet, he wondered if she had heard something else in it. If she had carried away a meaning he hadn’t intended, or worse, had understood him more clearly than he’d wanted to be understood.
And for one unsettling heartbeat, a darker thought curled in: what if she hadn’t been speaking hypothetically at all? What if the question had been a test—or a confession? The possibility struck sharp and cold, but he forced it down, refusing to chase it further. Speculation was useless. Dangerous.
Still, the doubt lingered, wrapping tight around the ache already lodged in his chest. Had she left because of that? Because he hadn’t given her what she needed to stay?
The thought struck harder than any blade. He would have preferred a fight, a shouted accusation, anything that could be met head-on. Instead, she had chosen the one thing he couldn’t counter: silence. Disappearance. A wound without edges, impossible to stop bleeding from.
For a man who lived on detachment, he had never felt its weight so acutely.